


The Spirit of Christmas is Dying

by IcewineRose



Category: Hogfather (2006), Santa Clause (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Fix-It, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-15 05:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12315024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcewineRose/pseuds/IcewineRose
Summary: An alternate universe story about what our beloved characters would do under Jack Frost's Santa and what would happen if Scott failed to regain his Santa-ness in the third movie. Needless to say, Jack isn't very good at instilling the Spirit of Christmas, which has magical ripple effects across the board.





	1. A Slight Company Reorganization

_December 1994_

_North Pole_

The first thing that told Bernard something was wrong was the sickening sense of déjà vu that hit his gut as he watched the sleigh descend from the ceiling. Had it been any other time, he would have brushed it off as part of the repetitious nature of the yearly job. But he knew enough about magic to recognize some of the subtle clues it left behind. Something, besides the sleigh, was up.

The second thing, obviously, was when he saw Jack Frost lounging in the back of the sleigh, wearing Santa's coat.

Oh no. This was not good.

"Is that who I think it is?" Judy asked, squinting up at the sleigh beside Bernard.

"Yes. I need you to go find Curtis and contact the Council."

"But what about-,"

" _Now_ , Judy. We don't have much time."

"...Yes, sir," she said before disappearing into the crowd.

Many of the other elves had stopped working to gawp at the descent. For once, Bernard couldn't blame them. The whole sleigh-descending-from-the-sky bit happened every year when Santa returned, new or not, so he usually scolded those wasting their time watching it. This was the first year a pre-existing Legendary Figure had usurped another. He couldn't fault them for staring now.

Bernard clasped his hands behind his back to hide the fact they were visibly shaking. He was all too aware of the many precautions in place to prevent Jack from doing exactly this. Somehow, he managed to get around _all_ of them.

He was not looking forward to greeting Jack once he landed.

* * *

"He did WHAT?!" Curtis shouted as he and Judy sprinted towards Santa's office. Judy recognized the onset of a rant and let the question go unanswered.

"Does he have any idea how many codes and bylaws he's broken just by _touching_ his coat, much less putting it on?"

"Probably," Judy huffed, amazed Curtis had any breath to spare for complaining.

"And there's no way he could've even _been_ there unless he used the-," Curtis stopped dead in his tracks. Judy rolled her eyes, making a U-turn in the hallway.

"Come on!" she said, pulling on his sleeve, "Save your dramatic realizations for the Council!"

When they finally reached the office, they burst in, throwing common courtesy out the window.

"Abby!" Curtis yelled, "We need to..."

He let the message trail off as he took in the sight of the entire Council seated around the fireplace. They were all already there.

"IF YOU'RE HERE TO CALL US TOGETHER, I BELIEVE I'VE BEATEN YOU TO IT."

Including Death.

He stood in the center of the group, towering over all the seated Figures. Abby was currently skirting around the group, handing out mugs of hot chocolate and purposefully ignoring Death.

Judy elbowed Curtis in the side when he spent too long staring at the looming, hooded figure before him. He cleared his throat to regain some composure before speaking.

"Jack Frost has arrived. Bernard should be bringing him here shortly."

"GOOD. WE HAVE A FEW WORDS TO SAY TO HIM, AND I CAN'T LINGER HERE FOR VERY LONG."

Abby came up beside him, holding up a trembling tray with the last mug of cocoa on it. She kept her eyes glued to the ground as he accepted the drink.

"THANK YOU," he said, before somehow taking a sip without moving his skeletal jaw.

She nodded, still keeping her eyes on the ground, then half-ran out of the room, hugging the empty tray to her chest.

There was a prolonged silence, punctuated every once in awhile by someone slurping from their mug.

"THIS COCOA IS EXCELLENT," Death commented to whoever was listening.

Judy smiled a little, "Thank you, sir. It's my own recipe."

It was at that moment that Jack decided to fling open the doors, making as big an entrance as he could muster.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Everyone give a round of applause for your new Santa!"

Needless to say, there was complete silence after this announcement. Bernard stood behind Jack's outstretched arms, cringing into a facepalm.

Jack lowered his arms, his grin weakening into a grimace.

"Oof. What a dead crowd we have here tonight."

"Jack, you are in no position to be so flippant," Mother Nature scolded, standing to join Death in the center of the room.

"It's 'Santa' now, my dear," Jack said, sauntering up to her with a sanctimonious jab to her collarbone. "Did you miss my announcement? I can do it again if you want."

“Please don't,” the Easter Bunny groaned.

"I DON'T BELIEVE THAT WILL BE NECESSARY," Death spoke up. Jack gave him a leery sideways glance.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't Death himself. I take it you've been keeping busy. I haven't seen you at the last few Council meetings."

"That's because you haven't _been_ at the last few council meetings," Cupid muttered, eliciting a stifled giggle from the Easter Bunny and a glare from Mother Nature.

"MY DUTIES ARE NOT LIMITED TO A SEASON LIKE YOURS ARE," Death said, taking one last sip of his cocoa before placing the mug on a nearby table. "PEOPLE DIE EVERY DAY."

"You always were such a bright little ray of sunshine, weren't you?"

"INCLUDING TONIGHT. I SAW YOU THERE WHEN I WAS COLLECTING SANTA."

"Oh yes, how is the old man doing? Can't say he was in very good health last I saw him."

"YOU WERE NOT _SUPPOSED_ TO BE ABLE TO SEE HIM TONIGHT."

"I did, though."

"YES. THAT IS THE PROBLEM. YOU ARE A LEGENDARY FIGURE. YOU ALREADY HAVE A PURPOSE AND A PLACE IN THE WORLD'S DESIGN."

"But I don't _like_ it."

"NEVERTHELESS. IT IS NOT THE JOB OF A LEGENDARY FIGURE TO FILL ANOTHER LEGENDARY FIGURE'S ROLE."

"Oh, tosh," Jack dismissed, reaching past Death to grab his discarded cocoa. "Santa's job is up for grabs once the old man kicks the bucket, and I happened to be around when that happened." He took a deep drink from the mug. "Mm, that is good."

"YOU ARE DRINKING MY COCOA."

"Legendary Figures are not allowed to take Santa's role," Curtis interjected, "That's why none of the elves can take the job, either. We're Legendary Figures in our own right, and it would unbalance the magic of Christmas if one of us took it." The room turned to look at him.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, suddenly self-conscious. "It's in the handbook," he muttered.

"Not to mention that you are the least qualified person to be Santa," Bernard said, crossing his arms.

Jack turned on him. "And what is that supposed to mean, you overgrown yes-man?"

Bernard raised his eyebrows. " _Death_ would be a better Santa than you."

"THAT MAY BE," Death interrupted before the argument could spiral out of control. “BUT THE ISSUE OF YOU TAKING ON THIS ROLE IS STILL A PROBLEM.”

He reached over and removed his mug from Jack Frost’s hold.

“Hey!”

“AND THIS IS MINE.”

“Jack, there is no way we can allow you to keep this position,” said Mother Nature. “The danger to the Spirit of Christmas aside, the Clause doesn’t allow for magical interference when obtaining the suit.”

“Ah, but it does,” Jack said, turning away from the two of them towards Judy, “You, small lady elf, a hot chocolate, stat.”

Judy scowled. Curtis and Bernard stiffened their stances. The two shot nervous glances at each other as Judy left to get the requested cup.

“What are you getting at, Frost?” Cupid cut in.

“Why that glorious little loophole called the Escape Clause. Ah!”

Judy returned with Jack’s mug balanced on Abby’s tray. He took it from her with an insincere grin.

“Thank you, my dear. And good job everyone, on managing to keep that little nugget of knowledge from me for so long. I would have used it _ages_ ago if I knew I could.”

The room was quiet for a long time.

“You,” Bernard said weakly, trying to wrap his head around this, “... _abused_ the Clause’s safeguard to steal Santa’s job?”

“I know, it’s deliciously ironic, isn’t it?”

“THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IRONY.”

“And this is not a game, boy,” said Father Time. “I don't think you're prepared for what will happen if you keep this position.”

“You mean all the fame and attention showered on the fat man? I'm more than ready for a piece of that,” he laughed, taking himself and his cocoa to his new desk. He settled into the huge armchair and swung his legs onto the table. “If all you're here for is to tell me to give up this cushy new position, I'm afraid I'll have to let you down. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

“You're not allowed to-,” Bernard tried to object before Jack cut him off.

“Starting with you. You're fired.”

Curtis’ jaw dropped. Judy nearly dropped the tray. All Bernard could do was blink incredulously.

“...what?”

“I said you're fired. You irritate me. You,” he pointed at Curtis. “You're his assistant, yes? Congratulations! You've been promoted. Now everyone out of my office.”

“Jack, this is serious!” Mother Nature started, but Father Time stopped her with a gentle hand to her arm. He shook his head and motioned they should talk elsewhere. The Council took this as a sign they had not heard the last of the issue. The Tooth Fairy gently shook the Sandman awake as they all stood to leave.

“IF THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO BE DONE HERE, I HAVE BUSINESS I MUST ATTEND TO,” Death concluded, drifting his way towards the door.

“ONE LAST THING,” he said, pausing beside Judy. “WOULD YOU MIND SHARING A COPY OF YOUR COCOA RECIPE WITH ME?” he asked.

Judy took a moment to register that the question was aimed at her, and quickly nodded in response. “Sure. Not a problem.”

“THANK YOU. YOU CAN SEND IT THROUGH THE POST,” he said, then left the room with the other Legendary Figures.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death based on Discworld's Death, because he is awesome. Specifically, from the Hogfather movie, because Merry Christmas/Happy Hogswatch.


	2. Housemates

Bernard sat on the steps leading up to the workshop, surrounded by boxes he and Curtis had carted down from his old office and quarters. The first thing he had done upon receiving his undignified notice was call up his sister to help him move out. Myrna had _said_ she would be by a little later with her truck.

Now, it’s a _lot_ later. And there’s still no truck.

He regretted his decision to wait _outside_ for her. In the _cold_. His huff of indignation came out as a small white poof.

“Excuse me? Are you Bernard?”

A voice he did not recognize pulled him from his self-loathing. He looked up. It came from an elf he also did not recognize. She wore a red, festive looking trenchcoat that must have been warmer than it looked, coke-bottle glasses the size of softballs, and a disheveled blonde bun held up with a pencil. She was also holding Myrna’s car keys.

“Yes, that’s me. I take it Myrna got tied up with something.”

“Normally I would say ‘yes,’ just to cover for her, but this time, yes, she really did. Something about magic fluctuations and covers being blown and a lot of Scout Elf jargon and expletives I don’t understand. So she asked me for a favor. I’m Juniper. Nice to meet you.”

She held out her hand, which Bernard gladly took. At this, Juniper looked down at it in shock.

“You’re _freezing_. How long have you been out here?”

“A while.”

“Well, I had parked over in the parking lot, but I’ll go pull it around so you don’t have to stay out in the cold carrying boxes.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Her eyebrows raised.

“Really,” he emphasized, “It’s deceptively hard to get into this roundabout, and the exercise should warm me up just fine.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

She shrugged. “If you say so. I’m just not gonna be the one making you soup if you catch a cold,” she said, grabbing an unsteady pile of boxes. Bernard, seeing the strong sway in the towering pile, decided it would probably be safer to just take one at a time.

“What do you mean?” he asked, catching up to her.

“About what?”

“About making me soup?”

“Like chicken soup. ‘Cause it’s supposed to be good for when you’ve got a cold.”

“No, I mean, why would you be the one making it?”

“I just said I wasn’t going to!”

The stack of boxes hid Juniper’s face, but Bernard glared in her direction nonetheless.

“ _No_ , I mean why would you be in a position to not make me soup?” He stopped walking for a second to process whether he said what he meant to or not.

When she noticed, Juniper laughed. “Don’t worry, I got it. I take it Myrna didn’t mention she had a roommate.”

“No, she didn’t…wait a minute.” They had reached the truck, and Juniper had already crawled onto the bed, organizing her boxes. “That apartment only has two bedrooms. Where am I going to stay?”

“Okay, one,” she turned, counting off on her fingers, “how do you know how many rooms our apartment’s got, and two… I don’t know, the couch probably.” She reached down and took Bernard’s solitary box, “We didn’t exactly have much of an opportunity to discuss anything before she left.”

“We shared that apartment when we first came to the North Pole,” he answered, looking at the disorganized back of the truck. It was full of Victorian costumes and old, battered furniture. It all had that lingering musty smell that storage tends to impart on things left alone for too long.

“What’s all this for?” he asked, as Juniper jumped down from the truck.

“Just some stuff I gotta drop off at the Borealis later. We’re doing a production of _Scrooge_ , and we need this for dress rehearsal later this week.”

They started walking back.

“So I take it you’re a director, then?” he asked.

“Director, actor, stage manager, radio personality, ‘The Boss’,” she punctuated this last label with scare-quotes, “Basically whatever anyone needs me to be. It can get exhausting, but someone’s gotta do it.”

Bernard could sympathize. “And what is _it_ , exactly?”

“I think the official term is ‘Head Entertainment Elf’, but nobody actually uses that.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s not surprising. Most elves haven’t.”

“I’m pretty sure I would have.”

Juniper snorted a tad more derisively than intended. “Why?”

“I’m the… I _used_ to be the Head Elf.”

Her brisk pace faltered a little. “Really?”

Bernard nodded, not really wanting to talk anymore.

“Huh,” she said, letting the conversation end there.

They gathered and loaded the rest of the boxes in terse silence. Bernard was both confused at the change in demeanor and thankful for the quiet. Neither attempted another semblance of conversation until Juniper was starting up the truck. The radio roared to life alongside the engine, blasting them with Wham’s _Last Christmas_.

“Could you turn that off, please?” she asked, driving the truck out of the lot.

He obliged. They both slipped back into the uncomfortable silence and stayed there for the remainder of the trip.

* * *

Curtis felt simultaneously excited about his promotion, guilty over said excitement, and overwhelmed at the future laid out before him. Especially with the challenges of having _Jack Frost_ as Santa.

In short, he felt like he was going to be sick.

Not sick as in the “please move or my lunch is going to be all over your lovely living room rug” sick. Sick in the draining way a low-key cold can sap the energy from your bones.

Placing the handbook on a nearby desk, he leaned against its sturdy wooden surface as the wave of mental exhaustion hit. Sweet sugarplums, he was not ready for this.

“Ho ho ho and Merry Christmas and all that saccharine deliciousness!”

He certainly wasn’t ready for _this_ right now.

It was Jack, of course, bursting through the apartment’s open doors and nearly tumbling over Curtis’ scattered belongings. His old room was just down the hall from this one, so most of the boxes they had had left with Bernard. He’d barely begun to cart his belongings over and stick them wherever they fit. And a lot of them happened to fit right next to the front door.

“Geez, this place is a health hazard!” Jack said, theatrically dusting himself off with his free hand. The other was busy holding what looked like a book and a thin bottle of cream-colored liquid.

“Yes, sir,” Curtis answered.

“You should really tidy this place up.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a beat too long of silence, Jack said, “Yes. Well… Good.” He walked over to Curtis and handed him the two objects he held. “The small lady elf with the absolutely delicious hot chocolate informed me of your attention to handbookly detail. So I thought you might want to have a peek at this.”

The book was a bright sky blue, with silver lettering reading “The Jack Frost Handbook”. It looked like a color swapped version of the Santa Handbook.

The bottle was nothing more than _Blazing Snowflake Eggnog_ , the Strawberry Hill of the North Pole. Curtis stared at the chintzy label, trying to puzzle out _why_ his new employer was, apparently, giving him a bottle of cheap alcohol.

“Um, sir? What is this for?”

If Curtis didn’t know any better, he could have sworn Jack was genuinely taken aback at his question. It was certainly a more underplayed reaction than usual.

“Why, my dear… er…”

“...Curtis…”

“My dear Curtis. It’s a housewarming gift! Surely you elves have housewarmings.”

“Um, sir, we just finished moving Bernard out. I’ve barely moved in.”

“Well, what are you standing around for? Chop chop, let’s go!”

It wasn’t until Jack was halfway through his dramatic exit when Curtis remembered something he meant to give him anyway.

“Wait! Sir, the handbook!” he called after him, snatching it up from the desk behind him.

“Yes, what about it?”

“The Santa Handbook.” Curtis held it out for Jack to take, but he just stared down at it in response.

“So it is. Well! Best be on my way-,”

“Sir, you’re supposed to read it.”

Jack blinked at him. “Why?”

Curtis felt as if he was just asked why people bothered to breathe. “...because you’re Santa, sir.”

“Aren’t you the one who already knows this book inside and out?”

Curtis flushed. “Yes, sir.”

“And you are my ‘right-hand elf’, so to speak?”

“Yes, sir, but-,”

“Then why would I bother reading it?” Jack smirked, pushing the outstretched book back towards the giver, and escaping during his stunned silence.

There are times when someone says something so unbelievably stupid, that the mind pauses for a moment to make sure they heard it right. Because most sentient creatures assume other, similarly sentient creatures habitually use more than just their lizard brain. Curtis may not have thought very much of Jack Frost, but he assumed there would be _some_ awareness of the responsibilities he’d _insisted he take upon himself._

None of which involved firing the Head Elf on a whim or handing out housewarming alcohol.

He looked down at the bottle. Curtis didn’t drink, and from what he had heard, _Blazing Snowflake_ was not a very good place to start. It wasn’t meant to be enjoyed. It was for getting drunk and playing grown-up. Given what the probable future held, he didn’t think alcoholism was the wisest path forward.

That didn’t mean he’d never need a stiff drink, especially if this interaction was anything to go on. He tucked the bottle away in the back of the fridge and resumed his tedious task of moving in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the song Last Christmas.  
> Credit for the names “Borealis” and “Blazing Snowflake Eggnog” goes to my mom.


	3. Much Ado About Nothing

 

The only sound more annoying than an alarm clock going off at the proper time is a phone ringing a few hours earlier. When this happens, most people feel justified in answering said phone with an unpleasant demeanor. While this may be true of most people, it was a law of the universe for Myrna. And she was not afraid to deliver swift and (to her) just punishment to those who interrupted her slumber.

So when her landline rang only a few hours after she flopped into bed, a groggy part of her was aware it had to be for a _damn_ good reason. The rest was just cranky, wanted coffee, and ready to deliver on some punishment.

After stringing the required amount of generic curses, she rolled out of bed, looking like Samara got a perm. Slamming the on button to the coffee machine as she passed it, she snatched the phone up and snapped into the receiver: “The hell is this?”

“Robin, sir. We need you to come back to HQ immediately.”

Myrna groaned. The newbie. Of course he was the one who called. Some of the elves were probably hazing him. “What could have _possibly_ happened between Santa’s last stop and the way home? I promise you, the reindeer know what they’re doing. They’ve been doing this for years.”

“It’s not that, sir. It’s the active Scout Elves.”

She watched the first few drops of coffee hang off the filter, taking their sweet time to fall. “They’ve _also_ been doing this for years, so unless there’s a major system-wide failure of some sort, there really isn’t a reason for me to drag my sleep-deprived ass up there, now is there?”

“Well then, sir, I have some good news and some bad news.”

“Jesus Christ,” Myrna muttered, feeling a caffeine-deprivation headache taking hold of her temples, “Look, if the terminals are acting up again, just do a quick reboot on the system, it’ll be fine.”

“It’s not the _technology_ failing on us, sir.”

Myrna’s need for a cup of coffee dissipated.

_Shit._

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” she said, before placing the phone back onto its receiver.

As she headed back to her room, the front door opened, revealing Juniper, in her socks, and holding her shoes in one hand. She was pushing the door as gingerly as possible, cringing every time the hinges gave a ghost of a squeak.

“Hello Juniper,” Myrna said, disappearing into her room.

Juniper jumped, dropping her shoes and theatrically clutched at her chest. “Tinsel tufts, you’re awake.”

“Work called,” Myrna’s voice said, muffled by her door.

“And yet they live.”

“They had a good reason.”

“Must have. They’re still alive.” Juniper walked into the kitchen where the coffee machine chugged along, dispensing the drink’s sharp stench. She wrinkled her nose. “Please tell me you’re going to drink this before you go.”

“No time.”

“ _Great_. Thanks.”

She retreated from the pungent kitchen, leaning against a wall in the hallway as she pulled her boots back on. “Hey, before I forget,” she called in Myrna’s general direction, “I need to borrow your truck. Got some furniture I need to-,”

That’s when the phone rang again. Before Juniper had time to do anything but stand up straight, Myrna dashed past her, wearing only a bra and some pants, and snatched up the phone.

“This is Myrna, what is it now?”

“Oh wow, you’re actually awake.”

“Bernard?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a favor to ask-,”

“Unless it’s an emergency or work related, something showed up on this end that I need to deal with right now.”

“Well, it's… both. I got fired.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I know, long story, I'll tell you later. Right now I'll need some help moving out and-,”

“Alright, I’ll head over a little while later.”

“Don’t forget the truck.”

“I won’t. Is that it?”

“Yes. Thanks, Myrna.”

“Anytime.”

The moment she hung up the phone, she darted back into her room to finish dressing.

“Was that work again?” Juniper asked.

“No. Something else.”

“Oh… Look, I know this may be a bad time, but I _do_ need an answer about the-,”

“Yes, fine,” Myrna said, reemerging fully clothed this time, and tossed her keys over to Juniper. “As long as you pick up Bernard for me from the workshop at some point.”

“Uh… sure. No problem.”

“Thanks,” Myrna said, before fading into a shower of gold glitter.

* * *

Myrna didn’t bother to wait until she completely materialized in the Control Room before demanding, “Which of the magical systems are failing?”

“All of them,” Robin responded, not missing a beat. He was one of three seated at a long line of computer terminals, all displaying maps with several dots and squares meandering across them.

“Exaggeration or fact?” asked Myrna.

“Fact,” another of the elves piped up from behind her screen.

“ _Tits_ ,” Myrna muttered, coming up behind Robin and taking a closer look at his screen. “Is this a complete M.S. Self-Shutdown or widespread bugs?”

“Bugs,” he said.

“Good. That gives us something at least. What’s been the most affected?”

“Teleportation and camouflage. Disguises are dropping left and right, and teleportation seems to have limited itself to a 5-mile radius anywhere outside the North Pole.”

“Safe Houses still intact?”

“A few of the disguises are flickering, but security measures are still holding up. No complete failures as of yet.”

“Good. Send out a local retrieval message to all active sectors, and keep the inactive ones on lockdown for now. Blanket coverage, no exceptions. I don’t care _how_ important their mission is, I don’t want a single elf out in the open tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Robin said, running over to the E.C.H.O., the fastest way to contact any and all Scout Elves.

“Calling all elves, calling all elves,” Robin’s voice filled Myrna’s ears, despite his distance from her, “Operation _Not Even a Mouse_ is in effect. I repeat, Operation _Not Even a Mouse_ is in full effect.”

Immediately, elves started teleporting in, rushing over to their terminals. Most of them were still in their pajamas, and the few that wore uniforms had more than one button in the wrong buttonhole. Soon, all the seats were filled and Myrna found herself running between terminals, dealing with the constant stream of S.O.S. emergencies.

“Agents in Sector V4 having issues reaching Safe House 83, sir.”

“Covers blown in Sector B5. Several adults involved.”

“Teleportation is completely inoperable in Sector 2F.”

“Witnesses noticing Safe House 95’s Camouflage flickering, sir.”

“Sir, there’s a telephone call for you.”

“Who is it?” she asked, still focused on the screen of the latest disaster.

“Someone named Juniper, sir.”

She spared a quick glance for her secretary. “I’ll get back to her later, just take a message.”

“She says she has a question, sir.”

Myrna’s sigh eked out as a hiss. “ _Fine_ , I’ll be right there.”

After reassuring the sector head she was working with, she slipped into her office and grabbed the phone.

“What do you want, Juniper, I’m in the middle of something.”

“Yeah, uh, you remember when you loaned me your truck this morning?”

“Yes.” She could hear a sudden influx of commotion outside her office.

“And you said I had to pick up somebody at some point?”

“Sir!” another sector head burst in, “We have more covers blown in Sector Z6!”

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

“Pardon?” Juniper said.

“Look, Juniper, get to your point. I’m really busy.”

“Who am I picking up again and from where?”

“Bernard, main workshop, bye.”

“See you la-,”

Myrna hung up halfway through Juniper’s farewell and made a mental note to apologize for her behavior once everything settled down.

“Sir! Sir!” Robin ran in, nearly knocking over the elf who previously entered. “Sorry. Sir! The M.S. bugs-,”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”

“No! Sir, they’re gone!”

“ _What?!_ ”

“All the issues we’ve been dealing with for the past few hours? They’re gone. They just… disappeared.”

The elves in the office, for the first time that morning, took a moment to stare at each other as the information sank in.

“The fuck? _How?_ ”

“I don’t know, sir. But all the magical systems are back to normal.”

Myrna, still in emergency response mode, rushed past him back into the eerily quiet Control Room. She stopped in the doorway, hit by the confused and exhausted faces of all the assembled elves.

Walking over to the closest terminal, she saw that everything seemed to be running quite smoothly. Scanning down the row, she saw that all the active Scout Elves were squared away in their respective Safe Houses, and all the alarm signals were gone.

Everything was so _quiet_.

“What the hell was all that?” she mumbled to herself. The sound still carried across the entire room.

“We don’t know, sir,” a voice piped up from the middle of the silent mass.

Myrna re-checked the screen. “Everything seems to have re-stabilized.”

“Yes, sir.” It was Robin this time, emerging from the office.

The tension in Myrna’s shoulder’s released with her sigh. The rest of the room seemed to follow suit, and the whole atmosphere lightened.

“Okay, here’s what we need to do,” Myrna said, holding back her exhaustion for just a little while longer, “Keep Operation _Not Even a Mouse_ in effect until tomorrow, have three elves monitoring the terminals with shifts every three hours, and I want someone to contact Quintin to give our systems the once over, and someone get me a cup of coffee. I’ll stay here in case the M.S. starts acting up again, but unless that happens, Merry Christmas everyone! Bugger off and go get some sleep. It’s been a long night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “E.C.H.O.” stands for “Emergency Contact from the Home Office”. Credit for this goes to my mother.


	4. Jack of All Trades

After throwing their new guest's boxes out the back of the truck, and leaving him with only her keys and the apartment number, Juniper sped away in a vain attempt to make up for the lost rehearsal time she was late for. She was pretty sure she was breaking the speed limit, but this early on Christmas morning, most elves were asleep, so the roads were empty. Even if she _did_ hit something, it was more likely to be an inanimate object.

_Also, it's not my truck, so if anyone catches me, Myrna will be the one to deal with the mess later._

_...Now I kinda hope someone will catch me._

She was fully aware that about 90% of her energy was anger. She needed to vent. Badly. And the sooner she could get to the _Borealis'_ phone, the sooner that need could be alleviated.

She was still stuck in her funk cloud when she pulled up to the moderately full back-lot of the _Borealis_. Making sure she slowed the car down, she backed it up to the loading platform where some backstage elves were waiting for her. As soon as the engine died down, they sprang into the back of the truck and began to maneuver the furniture out.

"You're late," one of them commented as she slammed the driver-side door.

"I'm aware."

"Theo's starting to worry."

"I figured."

"Rehearsal's started already."

"Good," she said, slipping through the "Cast Members Only" door leading directly to the wings of the theater.

They were in the middle of the _Father Christmas_ number. Without the costumes or full orchestration, it looked a bit like a group of shorter elves harassing a slightly taller one, chasing him up and down the stage with lyric heckles as the piano played away from the right wing.

It was about time. This group was _way_ too polite. It took her _forever_ to get them to the point where they were comfortable with fake-insulting one another on stage.

Theodora, the stage manager, wasn't in her usual spot by the door. _Probably because I wasn't in_ my _usual spot in the audience._ She decided to check in with her _after_ making her phone call. She slunk away to the exits leading to the foyer, nodding at the few elves she passed. Once she reached the tucked away door to the main offices, she stepped inside as silently as the ancient hinges would allow and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Nothing else exciting happened that night at Scout Elf HQ. The few noteworthy events that followed the M.S. shutdown disaster were far more sedate in nature.

An elf past her three-hour deadline mixed up the cocoa dispenser with the coffee machine and got a bitter mouthful that woke her up pretty quickly. More than a few elves ended up falling asleep at their keyboards. If they were close enough, Myrna might lean over and poke them awake with a ruler or pencil or whatever she happened to have on hand. Otherwise, she just let them sleep until the next shift arrived to send them home.

Quintin had come as soon as he was notified of the situation, and he was still over in his corner running diagnostics. Neither he nor Myrna thought they were going to find anything, but she insisted he at least go through with the motions. Just in case.

Myrna yawned for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. _Damn, that was a big one._ She willed her arm to bring her mug up to her face. It was then, for the fourth time that night, that her phone rang. The slow pace of her sleep deprived state kept her from spilling lukewarm coffee down the front of her shirt. After about the third ring, she gathered the required energy to answer it.

"Hello, Scout Elf HQ, Myrna speaking."

"What the frostbite, Myrna?!"

"Juniper?"

" _The_ _Head_ _Elf?!_ "

"Well Merry Christmas to you, too."

"What the _hell_ , Myrna?!"

Holy shit. That was a pretty heavy curse coming from Juniper.

"I take it you have a problem with Bernard."

"Oh, no. No problem at all," the sarcasm oozed from the speaker, "I just found out that the bureaucratic mistletoad responsible for making my job a nightmare is going to be bunking with us for who knows how long!"

Oh. Right. That. "If it helps, he isn't Head Elf anymore."

"He's still in our apartment."

"Look, Juniper, I'm sorry-,"

"How do you even know this dim bulb anyway? I swear if you used to date this guy-,"

Myrna took a deep breath before answering. "He's my brother," she said, before yanking the phone out to arm's length.

" _WHAT?!_ "

"Look, I know what you're-,"

" _Your brother?!_ "

"Juniper…"

" _And you never told me?! What the hell?!_ "

"Well I knew you would react like this!" Myrna snapped, still holding the phone like it was a hissing kitten.

"So you thought your best course of action was to wait until he was moving in to tell me?" Silence followed Juniper's huff of indignation. Myrna tentatively brought the phone back to her ear.

"Look, Juniper, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. In all honesty, I never thought it would be relevant."

Juniper snorted.

"But he is my brother, and I need to be there for him."

"Then _you_ can help him unpack. I already dropped him off at home."

"You just dumped him at our apartment?!"

"Yes, because I'm _busy_. With my _job._ "

"No, you're busy with your _hobby_. Your _singing_ pays your rent."

Myrna knew she had crossed a line as soon as she said it. The soft static of dead air permeated the line, lingering far more than was comfortable.

"Well, you can thank your brother for that when you see him," Juniper said. The line cut to a dial-tone. Myrna groaned and dropped the phone back on the receiver.

"Douglas!" she called, massaging her forehead with her free hand.

Her secretary ran in. "Yes, sir?"

"Can you get me another cup of coffee, please?" she asked, holding out her half-empty mug.

"Right away, sir," he answered, taking the sludge filled cup with him out of the office.

* * *

Jack looked disappointedly at the bottom of his empty cocoa mug. The radio playing from some unseen corner of his office momentarily dwindled down to station identification.

"You're listening to KPOL Community Radio, playing 24 hour Christmas music all through Elfmas."

The next song started playing as he swung his mug down onto his desk with a whining sigh. He had just gotten comfortable and really didn't want to move until it was absolutely necessary. And that was hopefully a whole year away. He did the big Christmas Eve bit. What else was there to do?

Well, glaring at his mug and willing it to fill with cocoa isn't going to accomplish anything. Maybe there's a "call hot cocoa refill elf" button somewhere. He shuffled papers around on his desk in the glimmer of hope there was one.

"Geez, how is anyone supposed to get a refreshment in this place?" he muttered, quickly dropping the search.

He was about to start yelling for whoever could hear him, when, lo, and behold, the elf in question _finally_ slipped into the room.

"Ah! There you are! I was just wondering how I was supposed to call you."

Abby responded by silently closing the door behind her.

Jack lazily held out his empty mug. "Refill, please."

"Um," her eyes fell to the papers she held to her chest, "alright."

"Thanks," Jack grinned, placing the mug down on his desk, and resuming his comfortable position. In the background, the radio transitioned to another song.

Abby's movements were so fluid and subtle that he almost missed when she swapped the mug for the papers.

"Hold on there," he said, stopping her as she spun around to leave. He held up the problematic pages. "What are these?"

When Abby turned back to him, she looked like a child caught with incriminating dishes covered in purloined cake crumbs.

"...Forms," she said.

"Forms?"

"For you to fill out. I was going to go over them when I got back."

Jack started leafing through them. At first glance, they seemed like order forms and requests for supplies. He looked back at her, confused.

"Why?"

“Because the Wood Shop needs more-,”

“No, I mean why are you bringing _me_ these?”

Abby blinked back at him. Now they were both confused. “Um…because that’s part of your job?”

“Oh, right...I see,” Jack said, not seeing the relevance at all. He pretended to pour over the forms with great interest as Abby gave a tiny curtsy.

“Please excuse me,” she said, “I’ll be back in a minute with some more cocoa for you.”

And with that, she left. The moment the door closed behind her, he tossed the boring documents back onto the desk. He was pretty sure that was actually the head elf’s job, anyway, whatever his name was. He couldn’t blame the hot cocoa elf for getting confused. It was probably above her pay grade.

 _Do they even_ have _pay grades up here?_ he wondered.

“And that was _The First Noel_ , by none other than our very own Juniper,” the radio announcer cut in. Jack decided to pay attention to that instead.

“Quite the talented elf, if I do say so myself. And folks, don’t forget to swing by the _Borealis_ this Elfmas Eve at nine o’clock sharp to enjoy an evening of festive entertainment.”

Jack glanced at his desk clock. It was almost eight-thirty.

“I believe the production they’re putting on this year is the 1992 musical _Scrooge_ , directed by, you guessed it, Juniper. I’m certainly going to be there and I hope all you lovely listeners will be able to make it too. Up next, Bing Crosby’s _White Christmas_.”

But by that point, Jack had already sped out of the room, leaving the song to play to empty air.

* * *

Juniper was trying her hardest to properly do her job, but given that her phone call had done nothing but exacerbate her funk cloud, it was very difficult to see anything past it. Even if said thing was a full musical production right in front of her face.

“Um, Juniper?” Theodora said, managing to break through the mental fog. The seats were not very well lit, and Theo was wearing the solid black garb required of anyone working backstage. It was easy to forget she was right there.

“Mmm?” Juniper answered, her gaze still half focused on the stage.

“Is everything alright?”

Juniper took a deep breath. She didn’t want to dump this on her friend right now. “Well enough, why?”

“You’re scowling at _everything_.”

“Dang it, really?”

“Yeah, it’s starting to get a bit weird.”

“Sorry. Just… there’s a lot of stuff happening at once.”

“Well, yeah, it’s a big number.”

“No, not the play. That’s been fine so far… I think.”

“Nice to know you’ve been paying attention.”

“Not helping.”

“Um, I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies, but we have an...unusual situation out front,” a security guard, who hadn’t made a sound prior to this statement, startled them both.

Theo rolled her eyes. “Great.” She turned to Juniper, “Do you want me to take care of this, or-?”

Someone slammed the main entrance doors open. Hard. Juniper winced. You could hear the dull, painful thud over the cacophony of voices spilling into the room after it.

Despite falling on the relatively quiet end of the loud noises scale, the whole theater heard it and stopped what they were doing to watch.

Because they all knew that the _Borealis_ was effectively Theodora’s baby. And everyone, except, apparently, the newcomer, knew how Theo tended to react to mistreatment of her baby. And it was always worth watching.

“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” Theo shouted as she stormed off towards the intruder.

It was never Theo’s particular choice of words that made her a force to be reckoned with. She could be reciting _The Itsy Bitsy Spider_ , for all it mattered. But if she kept the tone of a disappointed English teacher with the volume of a construction worker, it didn’t really matter. You still wanted to leave and never do whatever it was that lit her fuse ever again.

And since the performers on stage had reneged their positions as the center of attention, Juniper decided to join them. She squirmed around in her seat for a better look.

As soon as she caught a glimpse of who exactly this sorry soul was, she froze.

Santa.

 _Santa_.

Theo was in the initial stages of verbally tearing apart the new _Santa_.

And here Juniper was, like everyone else, watching the spectacle go down, but unlike everyone else, within Santa’s line of sight.

This was not good.

She needed to do something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The insults "mistletoad" and "dim bulb", and the name "KPOL" are credited to my mom.
> 
> “Fun fact: if you add “/watch?v=Deta_ZOeLgY” to youtube [dot com], you’ll get a link to the song they were performing above.”


	5. Traditions, Ties, and Tension

Ever since Hazel had, quite literally, picked up shop and moved her establishment to the North Pole, she’d had the quietest Christmas mornings since she could remember them being a thing. The tavern looked festive enough, strung with garland, cranberries, and paper chains, and the tree twinkled in the corner with the light of just enough candles sprinkled through its leaves. It was cozy enough to invite even the most cranky of forced early Christmas risers. But the only ones who were awake (and had decided to meander down for breakfast) were her, a handful of the inn’s tenants, and her huldra waitstaff. Although, in the end, it didn't matter if anyone saw them now. They weren't up for the elves anyway.

Hazel frowned at the TV screen over the rim of her glasses. It was getting difficult to tell if the snow was part of the bridge scene of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , or the static from the poor signal. She reached down for her cane resting against her barstool, and with a swift arc through the air, brought it down on the rabbit-eared box with a metallic _THWACK_. The image cleared instantly.

It was also followed by a wooden clatter, a slosh of water, and a nearly imperceptible curse from behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Tonna, a waitress, hastily retrieving a fallen bucket. Her prehensile cow-tail had started to mop up the pool of water threatening to spill over the sides of the table. None of this commotion seemed to disturb the passed out rusalka slumped over said table in the slightest.

Hazel started to creak her way upwards, keeping her cane hooked over the crook of her arm. “I’ll get a fresh bucket,” she groaned as she stood up completely. Tonna nodded in response, diverting her attention to mopping up the mess. On the way to the water-access door, Hazel hooked the empty bucket with her cane, not even breaking her stride.

There are three different entrances leading into the Hollow Tree Inn. The main door, which opens onto the foyer, which itself leads to both the apartments and the tavern, is mostly used by the elves renting the rooms. Built into a corner of the tavern was the namesake hollow tree of the Hollow Tree Inn, which leads to the inn’s old location in a particularly hidden part of a forest. This is so the old pub-dwellers didn’t have to make the ridiculous trek up north every time they wanted a drink.

The water-access door was designed so that Hazel and her staff had a shorter distance to the well out back. It also had the added benefit of opening up on the riverbank, giving water based patrons a similarly short distance to the tavern. And because of this proximity, a portion of the river also made the move with the inn, so that both the river and the door were still used regularly.

The one unforeseen consequence that arose from this was how extreme cold tended to mess with the mental state of water-based fey.

Hazel, having bundled herself up against this cold, was shutting the door behind her, when she heard a splash and a very slurred Russian drinking song. Even before she turned to look, she knew what had happened. Someone had tried to come out through the well. Again.

She couldn’t see who it was yet, but she recognized the voice as belonging to a vodyanoy named Pyotr. Leaning over the lip of the well, she saw him happily splashing around in time with his indistinguishable song. He didn’t seem particularly worried about his predicament.

“Pyotr!” she called down, “What are you doing down there?”

After spinning around a few times, he finally thought to look up. Recognizing her, he called back, “Ah! Hazel! _S Rozhdestvom_! Merry Christmas! ...What are you doing up there?”

“You’re stuck in the well again, Pyotr.”

“I am?” he looked around in confusion, finally realizing his surroundings.

“I’m sending the bucket down, alright?”

“Yes! _Spasibo_ , Hazel!” he said, before resuming his song.

It took at least two more sets of hands and much longer than it should have to finally pull him out of the well. Between the enthusiastic song-based gesticulations, the bucket’s poor design for drawing up humanoid beings, and the freezing temperatures continually eating away at Pyotr’s already limited usefulness, it was a miracle they managed to get him out at all. It also meant that by the time she was able to make it back inside with a refilled bucket, someone had decided to stuff the rusalka’s hair in a mug for the time being.

She hefted the bucket onto the table, which protested under the suddenness of the weight, giving a groan bordering on a crack. Ignoring it, she replaced the still slumbering rusalka’s hair back into the bucket and dumped what remained in the mug back onto her head.

None of this prompted even a snore.

The huldra drafted into Pyotr’s rescue were dragging him towards the foyer and the rooms Hazel kept vacant for situations like this. The group nearly ran into an oncoming figure, who managed to step out of the collision in the nick of time.

The latest crisis dealt with, she resumed her position in front of the still crystal clear image on the TV. George Bailey already didn’t exist and was freaking out Mary by being a general creep. She had left him when he was contemplating suicide. Sighing, Hazel replaced her cane beneath her stool and leaned over to tick the time dial back to the spot she left it at.

“Hazel?” asked a vaguely familiar voice, right as she had gotten comfortable. Again. She sighed. Again. One of these years she was going to see this stupid movie in one sitting. This was obviously not that year.

Spinning around on her stool, she came face to face with an unexpected old friend.

“Bernard! It’s so good to see you!”

She was up, out of her chair, and had almost tackled him in a bear hug before Bernard had a chance to truly register that she actually remembered who he was.

“What brings you down here? I haven’t seen you in years!” she said, pushing him away from the hug for a better look. Her cane, swinging from her outstretched arm, caught a stray corner of Bernard’s attention.

“I…uh…” he stammered, gathering his bearings after the re-introductions sped through faster than he anticipated.

“Spit it out, young man!”

“I… I got fired.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said, as one of the waitstaff slipped by with a tray laden with mugs.

“I was hoping I could move back in,” he said, watching as the huldra dumped a mug on each of the passed out heads slumped around the tavern.

“Well, Myrna got a new roommate shortly after you left.”

“So I gathered,” he muttered, his mind jumping to his stuff strewn about the snow outside. Hazel didn’t seem to hear him.

“Well, I have some vacant rooms down here for the usual crowd,” she said, sweeping her hand around the room. “Although I guess I could make room in the apartment if you’d prefer.”

There was a distant thunk and a short wave of voices trailing from the hallway. It was probably the mumbling, half-passed out fellow he nearly ran into earlier. He remembered quite well what the ‘usual crowd’ was like. It was generally noisier than suited his tastes.

“I’d rather make room if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I may need some help moving in.”

* * *

Myrna held her note on her outstretched palm and watched as it dissolved into golden sparkles. Hopefully, it would help explain Bernard’s unceremonious appearance on The Hollow Tree Inn’s doorstep. Hazel was usually pretty understanding about this sort of thing. One look around the tavern demonstrated that.

She decided to circle around the terminals one last time before poofing home herself. The fact that _nothing_ had happened since the initial freakout unsettled her more than the incident itself; the lack of anything to react to made her antsy.

Everything seemed to be in order until she reached the last three terminals. The second to last one, specifically. The screen flickered. Just for a moment. If Myrna hadn’t been looking, she’d have missed it completely. And she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t made it up out of a need to do something vaguely productive and a lack of sleep. It was probably nothing. Her body was certainly on the side of leaving it and going home. Still, she sat down at the terminal. Just to double check. It wouldn’t take that long.

After clicking around the screen for half a minute, she was about to brush the thing off as her paranoia and go home, when a light caught the corner of her eye.

It was the house’s communicator light, flashing on the base of the headset stand. Someone was trying to reach headquarters.

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit…_

She sat there, staring at the blinking light, swallowing the urge to ignore it and go home. Pressing the headset to her ear, she hit the respond button.

“Scout Elf HQ, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Agent 24601, stationed in Safe House 67. Are all the systems still working?”

Well, they didn’t _sound_ very worried. That was good.

“Everything checks out on this end. How about yours?”

“Nothing major. Everything seemed to blink out for a moment, like a power surge. Normally, I’d ignore it, but with that whole mess earlier…”

“Understood. All systems are working. It doesn’t seem to be connected, but we’ll check it out anyway.”

“Thank you, HQ. Agent out. Merry Christmas.”

Myrna smiled. “Merry Christmas,” she responded, before replacing the headset on the stand.

The chair gave a squeak as she leaned back, releasing the last vestiges of professionalism with her sigh. Still massaging her forehead, she allowed herself to dissolve back home.

* * *

One second Theodora was storming away from the argument in a huff, the next she was on the floor with a gash above her eyebrow. She had lost her footing near some of the seats and had hit the back of one with her face on the way down.

The security guard was helping her to the first aid station. She was bleeding a lot, but that was to be expected with any head wound, and this one wasn’t deep enough to be concerning. She was going to be fine.

That wasn’t what worried Juniper.

What worried her was the icy patch melting into the carpet where Theo fell.

She looked back over at Santa. To his credit, he actually seemed at least a little worried. But he had still caused it in the first place.

She knew he was Jack Frost as soon as she got close enough to see his hair was stiff with ice instead of hair gel. The other hints, like the temperature dropping, or how his face tinged blue before she convinced Theo to walk away, only confirmed her suspicions.

So, _the_ Jack Frost, who was somehow also Santa Claus now, had, intentionally or not, injured her friend, and was just standing there.

Now what?

She knew what Myrna would do: she’d just hit him. He had established himself as a threat, and she’d been trained to take down people three times her height and weight, neither of which Jack even came close to.

Juniper was pretty sure that the most she’d be able to do was break her own wrist with the first punch she threw. Physical confrontation wasn’t where her strengths lay.

Taking the shallowest of deep breaths, she stood up from her crouch where Theo had fallen and walked calmly over to him.

“She’s going to be fine, right?” he asked before she got a chance to open her mouth. She glanced over her shoulder at the doorway Theo and the guard were leaving through.

“Don’t worry, sir,” she said in her most soothing PR voice, “It was just a scratch. She’ll be alright.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “Was there anything else I could clear up for you, sir?”

“Ah, yes!” he said, shifting his attention to her, his demeanor changing as quickly as his eye line. “The play. The most I was able to gather was that it _wasn’t_ tonight.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“So when is it supposed to be exactly?”

“Nine o’clock on Elfmas eve,” she smiled, before adding, “In the evening.”

“And this isn’t Elfmas eve.”

“No, sir. That would be January 5th.”

His grin looked about as fake as her own. “I’m going to pretend that makes a semblance of sense, and just come back then, alright?” he announced, before bee-lining for the entrance.

“You’ll need a ticket!” she called after him, momentarily dropping her customer-friendly facade.

He didn’t even bother to stop. “That’s what I said!” he yelled over his shoulder, before disappearing through the entryway.

“...what?” she mumbled to herself, parsing out exactly what was said.

“That was Rude Person for ‘I would like to order a ticket, please’,” Theo said, re-entering the room. The bandage stood out like a bullseye against her dark skin and hair.

Juniper didn’t say anything. Nothing she said at this point would help.

Theo scowled. “Bet you’re gonna reserve one for him anyway. You always do.”

“I’ve never met him before-,”

“No, but I’ve seen you kiss up to enough people to know you will.”

Juniper bit back her remark, turning back to the stage. The cast was still watching their spectacle at the entrance of the theatre.

“You okay enough to work?” Juniper asked, still looking straight ahead.

“I’m fine. Let’s get to work,” Theo snapped as she stormed off, heading to her usual position backstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the fairy species mentioned were made up by me. Some dude named Folklore did. All credit to them.


	6. Conclusion Hopscotch

“Yippie ki yay, motherfucker.”

For whatever reason, the universe conspired to have that festively iconic line be the first thing Juniper heard when she finally got home after a long day of rehearsal and work. Technically, she could hear the muffled sound of the TV playing when she came in the front door, but “yippie ki yay” was the first distinguishable line her brain managed to pick out.

Whatever. It fit her current mood perfectly, so close enough.

Theodora was still mad at her by the time rehearsal finished, although she had toned down to silent fury. Then, when she got to the recording studio, (late, of course,) the only microphone worth a dime broke in the middle of her least favorite song, and the idiot who hired her didn’t bother to tell her about it until she sang through the whole piece. So not only did she have to figure out how to fix the finicky thing, she had to perform that stupid song all over again. And that wasn’t even mentioning the ripped seams and tears in what felt like _half_ the production’s wardrobe that she’d have to find either the time or someone else to mend.

And now, as the cherry on the sock flavored sundae, she now found her roommate and her mistletoad of a brother passed out in front of the TV, in no state to receive the earful she’d been preparing all day.

_So yes, universe, thank you. Yippie ki yay, indeed._

Had she been in a better mood, she might have considered the scene before her cute. Their heads had lolled towards each other, their tight curls tangling up with one another’s. A few tufts stuck up in Juniper’s line of sight, adding a slight fuzzy effect to the lower portion of the screen.

The TV was in the middle of _Die Hard’s_ climax. Good movie. It was one of the overlaps in her and Myrna’s tastes. And she especially liked this scene. Just the whole concept of duct taping a gun to oneself played dead straight. Good stuff.

Realizing she had spent enough time staring in the general direction of the flashy light-box, she figured she was too out of it to properly get angry, even if Myrna _had_ been awake. As long as she brought it up in the morning, she would let sleeping dogs lie.

The bundle of costumes was starting to inch their way out of her arms. She tried to shift them into a better position as she shuffled over to her bedroom door.

Or, at least, over to what she _assumed_ was her bedroom door.

Kneeing the door open, she reached with her elbow for the light switch. It was further away from the door than she remembered. Stepping further into the room, she stubbed her toe. Hard. Against something that shouldn’t have been there. It hurt.

Losing her grip on the bundle, she threw her hand out to steady herself against a nearby dresser. Instead, her hand hit empty air and she slammed her hip into the corner of something _else_ that shouldn’t have been there.

Sweet caramel nougat. Now _that_ hurt.

At this point, the clothes had abandoned ship and lay in a heap on the floor. She stood there, sucking in Myrna-worthy curses in quick sharp breaths as she waited for the pain to subside. Having had quite enough of today, she slammed her palm against the wall, forcefully sliding it around until she _finally_ found the stupid switch. After squinting against the sudden light, she made an unsettling observation.

This wasn’t her room. All of her stuff was replaced with boxes. And this was the cleanest it had been in years.

…wait, weren’t these Bernard’s boxes? Where was all her stuff? Had Myrna kicked her out? Was her stuff dumped into the snow outside like she had dumped Bernard’s stuff earlier?

_Oh no._

The apartment layout had an open kitchen leading to a sunken living room, with one hallway leading from the front door and connecting the remaining rooms on one side. Down at the end of this hallway was a window overlooking the impossible river winding through the snow banks behind the inn. At the moment, it also gave a spectacular view of the burning Yule Log at the center of many drunken festivities crashing around in a wide radius. If her stuff _was_ outside, there was no doubt the rowdy crowd would already have their hands on it, and the window was the fastest way to check without leaving the apartment.

It didn’t take her very long to reach and throw open the window.

* * *

Elficer Ralph Parker wheeled his bicycle through the snow piled up around the building to reach the source of the noise complaint that had called him out here.

To say he was not happy would be a massive understatement. Not only had this noise complaint call become a yearly tradition at this point, but the Hollow Tree Inn was also a fair distance away from his police outpost and it just so happened to be a particularly frigid night. Especially if your method of transportation was as open and inviting to the chill as his stupid bicycle.

He had lost count of how many times he’d been dispatched to deal with Hazel’s little Christmas party, so the sudden debauchery on display as he rounded the corner had lost its impact. Yes, there was a large and varied group of inebriated magical beings doing what magical beings tended to do when inebriated. Most notably, being as loud as possible for no other reason than it was possible. So, nothing had changed much since last year.

He continued to walk his bicycle through the snow, adjusting his course as people and objects meandered in and out of his path.

The first year he’d shown up had been a complete disaster. To be fair to his past self, it was quite the dispatch to drop on the rookie, sending him out with no backup or warning as to the extent of disorderly conduct that would be on display. Even after the initial shock, there was no easy way of identifying party-goers from waitstaff, much less who was in charge. He bounced between drunken responses to his questions for about thirty minutes before he was finally directed towards Hazel. Every year after that, he made it a priority to locate and immediately beeline for her upon arrival.

She was pretty easy to spot this year, as she had situated herself behind a makeshift bar that served as a more convenient facsimile to the one inside. Elbowing his way through the crowd and their complaints, he flagged her down.

Upon recognizing him, her already sunny smile beamed a bit brighter. She always seemed disproportionately happy to see him, which confused him to no end.  For someone with her record that continued to grow every year, you’d think she'd have soured towards the Elficers over time. If this was the case, she did a very good job of hiding it through the many, _many_ years he'd been coming to visit. His gut reaction, as always, was to doubt the other's intent. And at first, he had no issue trusting his gut, assuming it was all an act to remain as much on his good side as possible. Now, more than a few years down the line, he really couldn't say _what_ her intentions might be.

She asked him if he wanted a drink. At least, he thought she did. He definitely saw her mouth form the word “drink”. But the sound never survived the trek from her lips to his ears, no doubt pulled from its course by the many surrounding distractions.

He shook his head, gesturing at the lack of verbal communication happening. She nodded in understanding while proceeding to pour him a steaming mug of something-or-other anyway. He tried to refuse it, but Hazel insisted, adding some clarification that was also lost to the crowd. Giving up, he reluctantly took the tankard from her. She gestured towards the tavern, motioning they could talk there. He nodded and attempted to ditch his drink by "forgetting" it, when Hazel helpfully waved him down to hand it to him again before getting sucked back into the rush of activity. He resigned himself to his fate of nursing an unwanted drink for the rest of his time here, awkwardly walking his bike towards the tavern with his one free hand.

* * *

The first thing Juniper saw upon introducing her face to the elements was pure white because her glasses had frosted up. As she stood there, breathing onto her lenses to warm them, an oddly listenable chorus of nearly forgotten carols rushed in with the wind. The sheer number of imbibed voices drowned out one another’s sour notes, adding to the atmosphere of a-moment-out-of-time celebrations.

Despite how much all of the elven inhabitants of the inn loved to exaggerate the wanton destruction of Hazel’s annual Yule party, she had to admit that the whole thing was much calmer than this large of a fae gathering tended to be. Hazel’s ability to control a crowd without any obvious action on her part was an enviable skill. But it still didn’t put her belongings in the clear if they were outside.

Everything was far enough away that she was sure, even without her specs, that nothing familiar was lying in any sort of state in the snow below. Thank crumb for that.

She started chewing on the end of her glasses. So her stuff wasn’t in her room, and it wasn’t outside. So it had to be _somewhere_ in the apartment. She just had to figure out _where_.

To the left of the open window was a closet where they kept spare blankets and towels and linens and things of that sort. It didn’t have enough room to hold _all_ of her stuff, but it was as good a start as any. Inside she found a blobby mess of rectangular shapes. Her glasses were still dangling from her mouth. Upon replacing them, she still didn’t find anything other than the blankets and towels and linens and things of that sort that belonged there. Across the hall was the bathroom, which yielded similarly fruitless results.

She was missing something here. Most likely something obvious.

Okay, time to cover the basics. How many rooms did the apartment have? Not including the living room and kitchen, there should be five: the closet, the bathroom, and both her and Myrna’s rooms.

And doing a quick headcount ( _door-count?_ ) of the doors revealed that there were…

…six? Since when were there six rooms?

In her dash for the window, she had missed the half-closed door between the closet and what she had assumed was her room. Reaching for the light switch, she found it precisely where she expected it to be, as well as the rest of her mess spread across the room.

She looked back over at the brand new bedroom that had materialized over the course of a single workday.

“Making room.” It was a phrase she had heard Hazel use quite a bit, usually in the midst of dealing with whatever the newest emergency involved with running an inn was. And given that they were, quite literally, at the _North Pole_ , this kind of magic wasn’t unheard of...

_But this is a bit more literal than I was expecting._

On her way to retrieve her costumes, a particularly noticeable gust of wind blustered in through the still open window. It drew a wave of goosebumps across Juniper’s skin and a small shuffling noise from the couch. Myrna had half woken up, pulled a pillow on top of her like a very stiff blanket, and had fallen asleep again in a manner of seconds.

Yeah, leaving a window open to the harsh North Pole climate did a number on the overall temperature. She went over to close the window and pull out two of the thicker blankets from the closet. Taking them to the living room, she set one down on the floor while she floofed the folds out of the other. Gingerly removing the pillow, she tucked Myrna into a snug half burrito. Then she flung the other blanket in Bernard’s general direction before calling it a day, retrieving her costumes for the final time, and heading to bed herself.

* * *

This exact situation was why Ralph tried to avoid large parties if he could help it, even in the rare instances that he was invited. The smell wafting up from his mug reminded him of honey-flavored cough syrup. _Spiked_ honey-flavored cough syrup, but cough syrup nonetheless. He was not a fan.

He’d put up with it at first because it was an excellent hand warmer. That had dissipated a while ago, leaving him with only the tavern’s fireplace as a source of heat. The reason he hadn’t simply leaned back and placed the strange smelling tankard on a vacant table was precariously balanced in the chair right beside him. Every once in a while, some of Hazel’s employees brought in another fey that had failed to hold their liquor. He hadn’t quite figured out why they put some in a distant corner and then others on the floor before the fire, because he didn’t care. Still didn’t. But about ten minutes ago they had dumped a particularly floppy individual in the chair right next to him. Where a gentle breeze was likely to knock them over on top of Ralph. He was not happy about this. Having a complete stranger drool onto his uniform was one indignity he was not willing to put up with tonight. He _was_ willing to put up with holding the mug. So he did.

It wasn’t all that bad, though, waiting inside for Hazel to return. He was warm, had a drink (if he dared to try it), and a semblance of entertainment with a bickering couple seated a few tables away. They were engaged in the type of argument that absorbed its participants to the point where they dismissed such petty distractions as potential eavesdroppers.

Given what he’d been able to piece out through the muffled noise and lack of context, he was pretty sure this was about a workplace dispute. Someone or other had apparently stepped on important toes by taking a position he was neither qualified nor in line for, while still _technically_ keeping their nose clean.

The point of contention was whether they should _do_ anything about it. The woman was adamant that something must be done _now_ , no matter the cost. The older gentleman agreed with her but wanted to haggle the price. Protocols exist for a reason and it would be wise to keep their own noses clean. Proceed with caution and whatnot.

It was bizarre how engrossing he found the whole thing. If this was the appeal behind reality TV shows, he could sort of understand why people liked them.

Oh great. Another drunk. A wave of noise washed over the room, momentarily drowning out the argument. It resumed shortly after the door squealed shut.

A chair _thunk_ ed into existence beside him, causing him to jolt forward, spill some of his drink onto his pants, and the rest onto the floor. “Jingle balls,” he muttered. Now he’d be stuck with the smell all night. He glared at the wet spot above his knee as he frantically scrubbed away at it. “Big, bouncy rubber balls.”

_Thwack!_

Without moving his head, he could see the floor end of a cane out of the corner of his eye, hovering a few inches away from his face. Upon turning his head, he could also see that the cane was holding up the previously precariously balanced figure. Swiveling around in his seat revealed Hazel’s smiling countenance as the bearer of the cane.

“Sorry for startling you, dear,” she said, as she nudged the slumbering fey to tumble in the other direction. “Reflex reaction, you understand.”

Ralph nodded, pretending he did indeed understand.

“Oh dear, you’ve spilled your drink,” she said, prodding at the puddle with her cane. Even before she looked up, she had flagged down a waitress out of nowhere. “Can you bring a towel? And a fresh tankard for the young gentleman?”

“Wait, no, I-,”

“What’s wrong, dear?” Hazel said, taking a sip of her own mug.

Ralph sighed, finally placing the empty mug aside. “I…didn’t care for it.”

He expected Hazel to look hurt at this. She didn’t. Instead, she got that fleeting, analytical sort of look. It made him far more uncomfortable than it should have.

“Did you try it?”

“…what?”

“Did you actually taste the krupnik?”

“The…uh, no.”

“Then how do you know you don’t like it?”

“Well, uh…” He was getting strong flashbacks of repressed childhood dinners. He felt reluctant to give the actual reason but couldn’t come up with a better one on such short notice. “You see, um…it smelled really weird.”

“Well that’s a silly reason not to try something,” she said, holding out a fresh mug that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “Go on. Have a taste.”

He softly pushed it back towards her, shaking his head.

“Now dear, I’m not sure if you’re aware,” she said, gently resting her hand on his shoulder, “but it’s generally seen as impolite for a guest to refuse refreshments so callously.”

He sighed, “Ma’am-,”

“It’s ‘miss’, dear. My husband’s been dead for quite some time now.”

He paused, not sure what to do with this information. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“As am I,” she said, shoving the drink into his face. “Only a sip, dear. I made it myself. And I can guarantee it’s much better when it’s warm and it does _wonders_ for the chill.” When he still didn’t take it, she added, “If you don’t like it after the first sip, I won’t bring it up again. I promise.”

“Fine,” he said, taking the cup. He figured one sip couldn’t hurt. And even with his limited experience with her, he knew Hazel meant it. It’s not like he could avoid smelling like it anymore. _What harm could it do?_ He tentatively swallowed a tiny mouthful.

This was a mistake. While he was obviously expecting _some_ alcohol, given the smell and the general effect it had on everyone else, he wasn’t expecting anything near its moonshine potency. And of course, given the unexpected burn and his natural reflex to something that unpleasant, a fair amount of it tried to escape down his windpipe, ensuing in quite the impressive coughing fit.

“Oh dear,” Hazel said, removing the devil substance from spilling distance and gently rubbing his back. It was a nice gesture and all; he just wasn’t sure it actually helped.

He was aware of several pairs of eyes drawn to him with the speed only outbursts like coughing fits could pull off. The small part that was still socially aware made it known it was _very_ uncomfortable with this, especially since the couple he had been eavesdropping on were no doubt gawping at him right now. That, and he heard the door open, meaning even more people had arrived and were no doubt watching.

“WILL YOU BE ALRIGHT, YOUNG ELF?”

Normally, his response in this type of situation (where speech was hindered in one way or the other) would have gone thusly: A quick glance up to establish eye contact, followed by a curt nod to show he wasn’t at Death’s door or anything drastic like that. However, glancing up to find you were, if not at his door, at the figure of Death himself, it tended to put a damper on the certainty of his health. If it wasn’t for his diaphragm still seizing up in failed attempts to save his lungs from the foreign substance trickling down his throat, he would have believed he had died right then and there.

“Dear? What’s wrong?” Hazel said, drawing his attention back to her and her own mug of that horrible drink she’d forced him to try.

…Wait a minute.

That drink.

His eyes darted between it, Hazel, and Death, all while his brain linked the three in various objectionable conclusions. The general consensus seemed to land on the side of leaving _immediately_ and seeking the assistance of the closest hospital as soon as possible.

So he did.

* * *

“Well _that_ was unnecessary,” Hazel said, wiping the krupnik from her face with the towel Tonna had finally brought out. “I think I may need another one, please.”

“Need any help, Hazel?” Mother Nature asked, moving aside to let Tonna pass. She and Father Time had gotten a good view of the elf’s scramble to leave, as they were coming over to greet Death at the time.

Hazel brushed it off with a quick handwave. “No, no, it’s fine,” she said, moving her drying efforts to her clothes, before giving up on them and dealing with the floor.

“I APOLOGIZE,” said Death, “I DIDN’T MEAN TO STARTLE HIM.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s always a tad jumpy,” she said, standing to deal with the now uselessly damp towel bundled up over one arm. She used her free hand to gesture towards the table the other two had claimed. “You three can get back to your discussion, and I’ll make sure some refreshments come your way.”

“I believe we’re set for the time being,” said Father Time, answering for all of them.

“Alright then. Now if you’ll excuse me-,”

“ACTUALLY, IF YOU WOULDN’T MIND,” Death interjected, “I WOULD LOVE A MUG OF SOMETHING WARM.”

She smiled. “Right away, dear. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to change my dress.”

“OF COURSE. IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN, HAZEL.”

“You too, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Yes, Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Fight me. 
> 
> I also have a short blog entry on why this chapter took a literal year to write, as that was a whole saga unto itself and far too long for an author’s note. Here's the link, if you're interested:
> 
> http://icewinerose.com/2018/11/chapter-6-authors-note/


End file.
